


Start As You Mean To Go On

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and Portugal get a rude awakening the day after Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start As You Mean To Go On

**Author's Note:**

> Old piece, edited from my tumblr.

In another life, the Nation of Spain has to be a personal lawyer. He passes himself off having all the brains of a sun-baked tomato most of the time, but when it comes to those under his ‘protection’ – these days, to his brother, to his blood, and to the more foul-mouthed of the two Italian brothers – he storms right in where angels fear to tread, as graciously subtle as a rampaging bull in a china shop.

_“HERMANO!”_

It’s a _very_ familiar wail that wakes both England and Portugal up from their sleep sometime in the morning after Valentine’s Day. The sky outside, seen through the curtains they’d forgotten to draw, is only _just_ edging into a weak watery shade of blue (it’s _early_ ), and Portugal _growls_ something in his native tongue upon seeing it, blearily raking back brown curls from where they’ve fallen over his face.

It’s far too early to translate – so England just groans beside him, face-down, stubbornly pulling his pillow over his head. His muscles ache a little at the shift, marks of a night well-spent. “That better be a death threat.”

_“HERMANO!”_ Another amplified yell from outside on England’s lawn – thank _God_ England had chosen to adjourn to his country home for the weekend; the large estate means there aren’t any neighbours close by to easily annoy. “ _Hermano, it’s not San Valentín anymore -_ ” oh, _English._ For England’s benefit, certainly; Spain has never shown anything less than the _utmost_ courtesy when trying to yank his brother away from the island nation, “ _We can go home now!!”_

Portugal has rules, good rules, household and personal rules, rules that are titled something like ‘ _How to Get Along With Both My Brother and My Boyfriend Without Anyone Killing Anyone Else’_ – rules that _mostly_ apply to Spain, but England, admittedly, gets smacked with the ‘ _don’t_ _taunt my idiot brother unless he starts it’_ one more often than he’d like. Rules, rules made for everyone getting along as happily as possible even _if_ Spain will insist on giving England poisonous glares every time he and Portugal are within a metre’s radius of one another and looking 'suspicious.' Rules – hastily-crafted _Valentine’s Day_ rules, for la Dia dos Namorados, that Spain won’t bother them on that day, directly or indirectly, will leave both England and Portugal _alone_ when Portugal heads to the island of Great Britain for a meal out and a long night in, port wine, bad TV, and each other.

The rules completely fail to cover the morning after.

Spain exploits the fact _ruthlessly._

_“HERMANO!”_

Portugal reflexively _twitches_ at the yell. His hand, dropped from his bed-head, falls naturally across England’s bare back, and his nails drag across the British man’s spine rather deliciously when his fingers go to clench. England is coaxed into peering half-grumpily out from under his pillow’s defence at that – only to splutter when he gets his bed-sheets flung over his head, Portugal casting them carelessly aside as he slides sleek out of bed, stalking over to the bedroom window to yank it open and snap loud obscenities at his younger brother on the lawn outside.

England would complain more, but when he pulls the sheets away he has rather a glorious view of his boyfriend’s tan arse – and it’s always _wonderful_ to hear Portugal chew Spain out, no matter which language it’s in. An Iberian Nation truly worked up is always a sight to see, and Portugal is bare and beautiful and utterly _furious_ with his brother, his hair still a tousled mess and his temper high in his cheeks.

England props himself up on one elbow and starts vaguely contemplating a marriage proposal (damn the international consequences and the in-laws he’d gain) when Portugal launches into what England _thinks_ is a very detailed description in Portuguese of how he’s going to choke Spain with his own matador’s cape and then shove his giant pointy axe up his arsehole if Spain does not _disappear immediately._ There’s some rather strangled-sounding complaining drifting in from outside at that, at any rate, somewhere between scandalised and whining, so it must have been a _good_ insult.

Gorgeous, intelligent, devoted _and_ annoyed at Spain – questionable nitty-gritty details of religion aside, England decides, there _are_ matches made in heaven.

Of course, that lasciviously star-struck moment _would_ be the moment Portugal pauses in his diatribe, no doubt _feeling_ the rather appreciative green eyes on his back and behind, turning around and fixing England with a rather waspish: _“What?_ ”

England blinks, deer caught in the headlights - before _smiling,_ slow and heated and utterly indicative of the thoughts he’d had running through his mind. Running even more _happily_ through his mind having his lover’s attention back on him, Portugal still flushed from arguing, the start of dawn outlining his gorgeous skin. England stretches, all the aches in his body today are the very _best_ kind of ache, and flops back again, resting rather heavily into the mattress beneath him (conscious that the sheets, all a tangle from being tossed and yanked about so, barely cover anything at all). “’Morning.”

Portugal stares at him – and then reaches behind him one-handed, fumbling, and slams the window shut.

They go back to bed.


End file.
